Sally emerged from the kitchen carrying a crystal punch bowl filled with fizzy pink liquid that matched the carpet. “And doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
We nodded.
After two glasses of punch, we moved to the dining area, where a long table was set, complete with calligraphed nameplates, white calla lilies, and cloth napkins folded into fans.
“What a production!” Norma whispered.
After dinner, chocolate cake, presents, and a few more glasses of punch, we left Sally’s thinking the party was a bit much for a birthday but agreeing she really knew how to throw a shindig.
Some may now say otherwise, but we never noticed anything off about Sally. Sure, the high attention she was paid by the opposite sex invited the occasional catty remark, but we all respected her. She never said “Sorry” or “Please” or “Just a thought.” She spoke the way the men spoke, and they listened. Not only that, but she scared the hell out of a few. Her perceived power may have come from the tightness of her skirt, but her real power was that she never accepted the roles men assigned her. They might’ve wanted her to look pretty and shut up, but she had other plans.
Later, when Sally’s name had been redacted from every memo, every call log, and every report, we tried to remember whether there’d been any clues about who she really was. But it wasn’t until much later that we put the pieces together.
CHAPTER 18
The Applicant
THE CARRIER
A week passed. Then a month. Then two. The wedding plans went ahead. Teddy and I would be married in October at St. Stephen’s, followed by a small reception at the Chevy Chase Country Club. My cover would become my life.
Teddy’s parents would be paying for the whole thing, but Mama insisted on taking care of the flowers, the cake, and my dress. Even before the engagement, she’d purchased the material for the gown—ivory lace and satin.
The day after Teddy proposed, she took my measurements while I was at the stove making breakfast. The dress—which she said would be her greatest work—was halfway done by February. But by March, she stopped making the gown, complaining she’d have to start all over again unless I put back on the fifteen pounds I’d lost since January. I told her she was being crazy, that I hadn’t lost fifteen pounds, maybe five at most—and even then only because of the stomach flu, which was the excuse I gave when I couldn’t get out of bed for a week following my dinner with Sally.
I couldn’t hide anything from her. Despite my layers of sweaters and thick wool tights, Mama could see my body was shrinking. My skirts had to be safety-pinned not to fall off my hips, and I wore thick turtleneck sweaters to hide my jutting clavicle.
Mama responded by adding bacon fat to everything: to schi, borscht, pelmeni, beef stroganoff; to blinis and omelets. I even caught her tipping grease from a frying pan into the plain oatmeal I ate for breakfast. She insisted I have seconds of every meal and watched my plate as she’d done when I was a child.
On the weekends, she’d bake multiple cakes, saying she was testing which to make for the wedding—honey, drunken cherry, Neapolitan, bird’s milk, even a two-tiered Vatslavsky torte. She’d force me to take multiple slices of each, often spooning vanilla ice cream on top.
Mama wasn’t the only one to notice my dwindling figure. Teddy asked if everything was okay so many times I told him if he didn’t stop asking, things wouldn’t be. He said he wouldn’t ask again but hoped I wasn’t trying some crazy new fad diet. He said I was perfect just the way I was, and his sincerity filled me with an inexplicable rage.
The typing pool also noticed. Judy asked what my secret was and said my waist was as tiny as Vera-Ellen’s in White Christmas. The rest of the Pool acted like Mama and left doughnuts from Ralph’s on my desk.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to eat; I just had no appetite—not for food, not for anything. It was hard to sit through a movie. It was excruciating to be in crowds. I began walking to work instead of taking the bus, just to be alone. At parties, I didn’t even attempt to make polite conversation. Even at the Sunday Company gatherings, where I used to enjoy the intellectual sparring and the feeling I was getting insider information, I chose